Baggage
by Krizzie
Summary: After losing Daryl, Merle seems to have gotten himself a little sister. Or maybe this not-so-little girl had gotten him. Either way, this would make surviving the apocalypse a little harder.
1. The Lost Girl and the Handless Redneck

"Hello?"

The first time Merle heard her speak, her voice was soft and scratchy like the words were clawing their way from her throat and reaching desperately to his ears. He almost knocked her down if it wasn't for the fact that he had just lost his hand. Merle thought for that split-second that had he had it, the back of his palm would have hit squarely on her dirt-stained cheeks and she would've been cleanly knocked off her feet.

The girl was dressed in a tattered flowery dress with a large poorly mended tear at the back. The first thing his mind did was mentally calculate her age, looking at her round face hiding behind long straight hair and placing her at around her late teens. The next thing he did was note the deep gashes on her bare feet.

"What did you want, sweetheart?" His voice lacked the usual malice in it. He was too tired of this shit. He had been cuffed to the goddamn roof by some punkass sheriff and been left for dead because that fat nigger didn't have the sense not to trip over his wide fag feet. He's almost been killed by a horde of those geeks. He's got no food, no weapons, no meth, no _brother_. He's got enough problems of his own without worrying about some little girl.

But hey, she's company.

"You're hurt."

Isn't she observant? Merle would have rolled his eyes if he had the energy. He brandished the newly cauterized stump before the girl's eyes.

"Got it all patched up, darlin'. Nobody can kill ol' Merle but Merle." He watched her look at the burnt flesh. He could still smell his own skin burning and swallowed thickly. No way he was gonna gag. Was no woman.

Her blank stare was interesting but Merle was starting to feel uncomfortable at this awkward stand-off, so he gave her one of his trademark salacious grins.

It had its usual effect, the girl's whole frame jerked, like she was catching herself from some dream state. One of them shy ones, Merle thought. Her eyes darted back and forth from his bloody face, to the faint smoke rising from his stump, to the open window just at his back. Her knees tensed and for a second Merle expected her to sprint but apparently, human contact weighed far more in her mind than any semblance of preservation because the next second Merle found her sitting cross-legged a few feet across from him.

"Hi, Merle." Her voice was a bit stronger, still scratchy. She cleared her throat. "I'm Tala."

* * *

**A/N:** I haven't written anything in years so I'm a little excited about this. Testing the waters around for a bit (especially since I'm pretty new at the TWD fandom, at least fanfic-wise) Let me know if it seems interesting?

**General disclaimer:** I do not own The Walking Dead or any of its characters. For now, I only own Tala.


	2. Merle Meets the Governor

It looked eerie under the bright fluorescent light. (For a minute, Merle reveled in the knowledge that there even still _were _fluorescent lights. Let alone electricity.) Like a thrice scabbed over cigarette burn. Picked at and scratched again and again and again, the wound never healing.

Slowly, he rotated his wrist, trying to ignore that little itch, that nagging urge to take another hit.

Clockwise.

Counterclockwise.

Turned and looked at the slight pucker where the gnarly skin closed over bone. Tried to imagine his lost hand, saw his knobby fingers, veins protruding beneath sunburned skin, patches of white hair near his wrist and just after his knuckles. Then he blinked and tried to make peace with the fact that it's gone.

Merle had always been good with his hands. Never been good with people or school but he could do honest work, at least the couple of times he cared enough to try. Losing one hand was like losing half himself. Goddamn Officer Friendly. He'll knock his teeth in if he ever saw that no-good face of his again. Cuff 'im to one of them damn roofs see how he likes it.

He flexed his non-existent fingers.

Alone, one-handed, in the face of the end of the world.

He spat on the linoleum. If anybody could do it, he fucking could. Dixon always came out on top.

Merle could still remember the intense burn of his flesh. Again, he swore vengeance against that blasted sheriff, that no good nigger, hell to all of them at that pussyass camp. Then he wondered about his brother. Sweet little Darleena. Spineless bastard probably never followed through with their plans.

"You should let us patch that up."

Tired blue eyes looked up at the sound of a smooth baritone. Must've been the governor all them damn hussies kept talking about. Pretty boy was wearing pressed clothes and a white pearly welcoming smile that did not seem to reflect that calculating look in his eyes. Merle knew his type. He also knew that he was in no position to be rejecting favours.

"You must be the governor."

"That is what they call me." The man chuckled, but made no move to offer his own name. Douchebag.

A woman wearing a doctor's coat swept past behind the smiling man. She was carrying an armful of bandages and two large bottles of what appeared to be peroxide. Merle barely spared her a glance.

"Do you have a group…?" The governor paused, and Merle realized he was waiting for a name.

"Merle Dixon." He supplied. He thought about lying, but decided against it. Truth was easier to remember, and not like he had anything left to lose anyway. He gave them the annotated version. "Was with my brother and some stragglers from Atlanta. Went to look for supplies back in the city and some cop decides to cuff me to roof and leave me to die." Merle brandished his stump as if it was a trophy. Martinez looked sick. The governor was unimpressed. At that moment, the lady doctor gently took hold of his unsightly stump and turned it this way and that not unlike what he was doing minutes before.

"Is this from one of your group?"

The governor was holding up a silk handkerchief. One of them damn useless girly things Merle used to scoff at. It used to be white but was now burned and stained with grease and old blood. Merle could still remember the shaking fingers that wrapped the soft fabric on his stump, the endless stream of apology as he cursed the owner despite the lightness of her touch and not for the first time Merle wondered what was it about making people uncomfortable that made him so giddy—for lack of a better term.

But this was not the moment to muse about things. Merle blinked and broke his stare with the governor, focused instead on the steady hands now wrapping sterile bandages around were his hand used to be. "Nah. Picked it up from one of them shelves."

"I see." The handkerchief was returned to a back pocket. Merle resisted the urge to follow the movement. "I'm sure you must be tired. We'll get your wounds taken care of. Dinner. A room. We can talk tomorrow."

Merle knew the governor did not believe him.


	3. All Dressed-Up for the End of the World

Tala was light on her feet.

It was a skill honed due to a desire for freedom and parents who kept a tight leash. She knew how to walk on her toes, scuffling with bare feet on polished wood and slipping away from suffocating walls into the exhilarating liberty that only the fresh night air can provide. (Granted, she didn't do much. Just walk around the dark village streets feeding stray cats until she felt tired enough to sleep.)

It was a skill that had proven itself useful in the apocalypse.

She recognized the bleached hair of the woman who tended cashier 34. She was nice, Tala remembered, eager to smile and did not snap at her when she spent more than two minutes digging for loose coins down the pockets of her jeans. The tag pinned on her uniform announced to the world -or at least to Tala- that she was Jane.

Jane with her sunken eyes and bloody torn scalp did not hear Tala as the girl swept past her and into the teens' section of the store.

* * *

Merle was woken up by clothes thrown at his face. Immediately, he spewed on threats of great violence towards his no-good baby brother. He was gonna get a fist up his ass that's what he's gonna get, beat him bloody and then-

"Who's Darleena?"

The voice, though low and quiet, was definitely not his brother's. Also, definitely not male.

Merle was on his feet before the girl could even take her next breath. He pushed her down to the floor, barely noticing the squeak of pain as her shoulders landed first. Short nails clawed at the handless arm that he kept across her throat. Dark eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets as she struggled to scream or breath, Merle didn't know.

Tala.

The name bounced back in his head at the same time he noticed his apparent lack of an appendage. (Goddamn, he could use a hit.) The little burst of self-pity made him want to make her _hurt_ so he let her struggle for just a second longer before easing up on the pressure on her throat.

"Teach ya not to come up behind hunters, girl." He grinned at the dirty look she sent him. He noticed she had changed into a pair of jeans, some rubber-soled shoes, black tank top underneath an unbuttoned red flannel shirt. The long straight hair used to be bunched up and hidden underneath a dark blue baseball cap now spilled all over the floor. He felt a few strands underneath the palm supporting him and could almost feel the pain she felt as they pulled on her scalp. "All dressed up for the end of the world, huh?" He pointed at her tender throat, cradled by recently washed hands. "Gonna bruise."

"Get _up._"

Merle let up, slower than he could just to make her more uncomfortable. She was itching to push him off, he could tell, but had wagered not to in case she pissed him off more. Smart girl.

"Asshole." She managed to croak out.

Merle extended his arms, brandishing himself with glee. "As advertised."

Tala scrutinized him.

Merle spent that time scrutinizing her back. She was a tubby thing. Her face was round and full, with lips that hinted just a bit of a Cupid's bow. Her ratty fringe clung in weird clumps all over her forehead. She looked tired, weary and Merle almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

Apparently, he passed some sort of test (or maybe she realized she was all out of choices) because she spoke again. Merle found himself sadistically enjoying the slight rasp that remained on her voice. "Who's Darleena?"

"Baby brother." Merle did not expound and she was too busy accounting all the new bruises in her body to care.

"Stupid name." was all she managed to retort. Her throat was tender, her shoulders were sore, and her tail bone was hurting like a nothing else she could remember. Damn, she was a sheltered bitch, wasn't she?

She was apparently also a bit boring because when she returned her gaze to the older man, (His name was Merle, right? What kind of name was that? Stupid names must run in the family.) he had lost any and all interest in her and was looking at his stump, picking at it with his remaining hand.

To be fair, she would also have been more interested with a recently amputated hand than a clumsy sheltered stranger girl.

She pushed herself to her feet, hearing her joints creak in protest. "I'm Tala." She brushed the dust off her new jeans. "In case you forgot. You're Merle, yes?"

"Good ol' Merle Fucking Dixon." He replied. All the nitpicking had his wound opening up again.

Tala cursed herself for thinking of clothes and not thinking of bandages. She's got some rubbing alcohol on her bag. That would have to do. Normally, she wouldn't care. He could bleed out or get infected by all kinds of creepy superbugs. But there were reanimated corpses walking outside intent on eating her flesh and she knew she wouldn't survive by herself. Merle looked rough, and scary, like the typical hooligan her mom always warned her about, but he was all she had. And hooligans seemed like the best end of the world companion anyhow. She needed him. And he didn't seem _that _dangerous. Just a tad unstable. She was unscathed, wasn't she? Except for that whole pinning-her-to-the-floor business but Tala was willing to concede her fault on that point. With a sigh, she pulled out a silk handkerchief she had picked up on a whim and stepped closer to the redneck. (Silk handkerchief? What was she thinking? Vanity would kill her someday.)

Merle eyed her suspiciously when she came closer and rummaged through the small bag by his feet. She brandished the small cloth and the bottle of alcohol like weapons against his narrowed eyes. "May I?"

"Don't think your scrap's gonna help much."

She shrugged. "Gotta be better than nothing right?"

Merle did not agree but he let her play doctor on his stump anyway.


	4. Sparkling Water

She can't feel her fingers but her wrists were burning something awful. The acrid taste of whatever cloth they shoved in her mouth had bile rising up her throat. The thought of suffocating on her own sick was the only thing that had her fighting against the urge to throw up.

Tala had woken up when she was bodily shoved against a pile of almost-bursting shopping bags in what looked to be the inside of a cube van. The hair-rising sound of metal against metal grated in her ears as the van's door closed. Blind hot panic had her frozen and when her cognitive functioning returned no earlier than a minute later, she realized that they had her arms and legs bound tight with some really thick industrial rope and movement was never really an option anyway.

The van shook as someone got into the driver's seat. The engine started loud and unapologetic, drowning out the sound of her heart hammering against her chest as the vehicle started to move.

* * *

(Three hours earlier)

"You look like you could use it."

Tala had about five (read: four and a quarter) bottles of water left and she was reluctant to give one away. But she was willing to share on the off-chance that a careful truce could maybe earn her the scary man's trust (maybe get a ride or at least a companion out of the city). He was sweating. A lot. Tala was sweating too, but Merle looked like was drowning on his own weight in sweat. The day was sweltering, and he _was_ stuck in a roof for too long than a human being really should, but the bloodshot eyes, and the way he kept muttering "Darleena" and "Goddamn Pussy Officer" and something about kissing his lily-white ass. It was honestly all gibberish to her. Then he was laughing about getting sent to jail or something and that had her thinking maybe he was suffering from something a little worse than dehydration.

_I don't think he slept at all. And he won't stop picking at that bloody (tasteless pun, it was unintentional) stump!_

Carefully, she pushed an unopened bottle his way. She was sitting just about five feet to his right, cross-legged, a backpack full of stuff she looted –mostly granola bars, biscuits, and juice boxes— by her knees. For a minute she wanted to slap her slow brain for not thinking of getting cigarettes. Merle seemed like the type to smoke. He was rugged and sounded mean. Don't mean, rugged men all smoke? Maybe he'd be a bit nicer if he had some of those nicotine poison sticks in his system.

Tala slapped her inner judgmental bitch and buried her in the far corners of her brain. She really can't afford to piss off mean rugged men like Merle Dixon. Not before the apocalypse and certainly not after.

Also, Tala was pretty sure the man was going on withdrawal. _Well, crap. _She had absolutely _zero_ experience on people on withdrawal. He seemed fine though. Except for the talking to himself bit. _Now_, she really wished she had one of the damn nicotine sticks. Maybe he could smoke a pack, let that tide him over. Maybe she can hang it over his head, make him do her bidding.

_At least I can use him as dead cannibal bait if he ever goes gallivanting because some drug-induced hallucination._

Tala slapped her judgmental bitch-self again.

As compensation for the lack of nicotine, she opted to give him one of those flavoured sparkling water shit a college friend of her liked so much.

Her eyes caught the small strawberry on the label a split-second after her hands left the bottle. She didn't think Merle liked strawberry-flavored anything but it was too late to take the bottle back. Well, screw it. Water was water, wasn't it? People in the apocalypse can't afford to be picky. Not even tough ol' Merle Dixon.

Merle's amputated arm twitched in reflex before his other arm moved to get the bottle. His sharp eyes scrutinized her as she pretended not to notice the slip. Politely looked away as he tore the cap off with his teeth.

"You have any whiskey there, baby doll?" Merle asked before downing the water in one go. Tala didn't bother to tell him to take it slow. She didn't peg him as the type to listen to a stranger's advice. Plus she really, really, wanted to avoid pissing him off.

So instead she answered in the most unassuming tone she could muster, "I did not pass by the alcohol aisle, sorry."

Merle's bark of laughter made her jump. It was a raspy laugh, not really loud but certainly not less obnoxious. It sounded like it came from the back of his throat and refused to leave, choosing instead to jump back and forth on the walls of his windpipe. His dry lips were stretched across his face in a funny, almost grotesque manner as he threw his head back, the split lip once again bleeding.

"I don't get it." She snapped.

Merle gave a last amused snort as he wiped a dribble of water from his chin. "Temper, sugar tits."

_Pig._ Tala thought venomously. She wasn't the sort of person who appreciated being laughed at. But the part of her that was weary of Merle Dixon had her keeping the comment to herself.

"Alcohol aisle, tha's funny." Merle was still shaking his head in amusement. Tala still didn't get what was so funny but wisely chose to let him say his piece. He was scratching at his face, picking at the skin peeling from his forehead. The skin was red and inflamed and the whole thing just looked gross and painful. Tala had to consciously rein in the urge to cringe. "How old are ya, twelve? Didja go ta one'a those boarding schools fer prim liddol ladies? Catholic school girls with them long skirts and little silver crosses 'round yer neck?"

That struck a chord. Maybe because it hit a little too close to home. Plus, she never really appreciated it when people told her she was too young to do something. Even when she actually _was_. Tala was scowling and straightening her spine just to look a tad more menacing. Merle's cocked eyebrow spoke of the futility of her actions. Still, she pushed through. "I just turned twenty, if you must know."

"Twenty, huh?" The look Merle sent her way had the hair all over her body stand and in a split-second she lost all her faux bravado. She snapped her gaze back to her little backpack of supplies.

"I-uh. I just had my celeb- um, birthday. You know. Uh. Just celebrated my birthday." Goddamn mouth won't form words properly. Tala nearly slapped herself for real. "This trip to Atlanta was a-uh- a gift-you know. Came here with my friends. Booked a flight weeks in advance and everything." She rolled the quarter-filled water bottle between her palms as she smiled a small bitter smile. "Some trip it turned out to be, huh?"

"I hear a truck."

When a girl bares a little of her soul to a practical stranger she expects something a little more comforting in reply. Maybe a little awkward head patting would suffice. _At least something a bit relevant._

When Merle did not seem keen on elaborating, she attempted again, "We didn't ride one, no, but I-"

"Shut it. I hear a truck."

It took her a long embarrassing minute to realize what he was saying.

_Oh. _

While her stupid egocentric self was still trying to catch up, Merle was already halfway across the room.

* * *

Her first guess was Merle's old buddies had come back and she was now being taken as some sort of collateral price for having to risk their asses going back in the city and not having found what they were looking for.

Serves her right trying to team up with a man who was obviously hooked on drugs. Even if Tala wanted to slap herself she couldn't very well do so with her arms secured tight on her back.

Despite the pain, Tala tried moving her hands, growling low in her throat when the thick rope rubbed against her raw skin. It did not help that whoever was driving the vehicle clearly did not earn the right to a legal license by the way he kept mindlessly driving over potholes and loose rocks and just generally being a Sucky-Ass Driver. From what she can see of him, prone as she is and getting bounced around like a hapless doll in the back of a moving van, he had a close-shaved head and brown skin, and there were sweat stains on the collar of his shirt. Ew. A bump revealed the head of a man sleeping on the passenger seat next to him. Another bump had his head going back to leaning against the window. But Tala had already stopped focusing on the men and instead focused on the rifle leaning against the sleeping man's shoulders. Another internal screaming session lasted for a few more uncomfortable turns.

Tala clenched her eyes, moaning in pain as the van bounced again and she landed badly on her left shoulder. Tears welled against her eyelids.

_I know I haven't prayed in a while. But God, if you're listening, I really, really,_ really_ don't want to die yet. _


End file.
